dementia

Biddy—real name Frances, but always Biddy to us—still has that beautiful smile and spark, even as dementia slowly changes things. The diagnosis didn’t come as a shock; the changes crept in so gradually they just became part of life. These days, we take things at a gentler pace—walks, bus rides, singing old classics at Singing for Memory. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to dwell. Keep it light, keep it moving, and hold onto the moments that still shine through.

Some days I still forget he’s gone. I’ll catch myself thinking, I should tell Dad that, like he’s just on the other end of the phone. Dementia took him last year, but in truth, we lost parts of him long before. Watching someone you love slowly disappear—it messes with your head. He was funny, kind, hopeless at socks, and a DIY legend who made Sunday roasts like no one else. Even when his memory faded—when he forgot my name—our love stayed. That’s what I hold on to. He’s still my dad. Always will be.

Howard Hopkins was an incredible man—determined, clever, and full of life. Together, we built a life rich with adventure and simple joys. But dementia still found him. I noticed the signs before we had a diagnosis—small things you only piece together in hindsight. Caring for him became my life’s rhythm: finding creative ways to ease his confusion, holding onto the man I loved even as pieces of him slipped away. Dementia taught me that love isn’t just about memories; it’s about presence. You can’t fight it by saying no—you adapt, you find another way, and you never, ever do it alone.

My mum, Linda, was diagnosed with vascular dementia three years ago. Before then, she was full of life. Sharp, busy, no-nonsense—but with the softest heart.

I’m Marco, and I’ve been living with dementia for nearly ten years. It started gradually—forgotten names, missed appointments—but slowly, it became impossible to ignore. Since then, life’s changed, but I’m still here. I still garden, play word games, go to the memory café, and spend time with my family—who mean everything to me. Some days are tough, especially when I can’t support my wife like I used to or find the right words. But I try to hold on to who I am. Dementia takes a lot, but it hasn’t taken my love for life. Not yet.

That’s my husband. Yeah. He’s got dementia. Before the diagnosis, on a superficial level, we were quite chatty. We were both involved in each other’s